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128 pages 1-55068-137-0 Click here for reading level. To read the first chapter of this book, click here. Enjoy! Other Tea Leaf Press books by A.D. Fast: After Dinner Barf Beating Up Daniel Crossing the Line Dangerous Rivals Taking the Lead The Mystery of the Medieval Coin To Save a King Angel Wilson: teenage divaToday was my first real day at Linwell High. Just what I wanted—to start high school in a new city with absolutely no friends. Fabulous.Yesterday was registration day. Everybody was laughing and hugging. It was really annoying. Especially since I wasn't one of them. I found my locker and picked up my timetable. Then I got out of there before anyone could make fun of me. We moved from Chesterville, where I was born. The thing is, I miss my friends, but it was good to move away from Chesterville. It was a small town, and frankly, although I still have a little place in my heart for Chesterville, most of the people there wear track pants. Track pants are my number one most hated piece of clothing. They can take a perfectly good butt and turn it into a saggy pancake butt. I hate them. But track pants aside, this new school in a bigger city is probably going to kill me. Linwell is supposed to be a good school, but you don't start grade nine at a new school with no friends. It is a known fact that you will get eaten alive. Today I got up at five o'clock in the morning to get ready. Yes, I said five o'clock. There is a good reason for this. First, I get the bathroom as long as I need it. And I need it a very long time. My hair takes me practically two hours to do, mostly because it is freakishly uncooperative and I have to do it over and over again. Usually it goes like this. I make it straight, and I look like a goose egg head. Like some long-headed geek. Then I pull it back. Ponytail, sides up, braid. But I look like my weird older brother, who has a huge nose. At this point, it is customary that I start freaking out and bashing my hair stuff around. My mom tells me, "Settle down, your hair looks fine." Fine is not good enough when you are trying to be a diva. So finally, after I cry a little—and I do cry—I make it curly. Bend over upside down, spray so much that I choke, then stand up and spray some more. To some people, hair is just a part of the look. To me, it's everything. Anyway, the second good thing about getting up early is that I don't have to walk to school. I get a ride from my dad. He works about an hour away and has to leave at six-thirty. I catch a ride with him. Why do I go in so brutally early? Am I a rower? God, no. Too cold outside. Am I studying? No. I finish my homework at night because I'm one of those keener people. The truth is, I go in early so my hair doesn't get wrecked. I wait two and a half hours for school to start so that my hair will look good. So my dad drove me in to school this morning. He coughed all the way to the school. (My dad coughs all the time. He reaches waaaay back and brings up a gob of spit, then rolls down the window and hawks it out onto the road. At six-thirty in the morning it is really annoying.) This morning he was at it as usual. Oh good, dad, hack away. Hack up a winner. Then, as we got close to the school, he rolled down the window and spat outside. Yes, you heard me. He spat. I sat there, horrified, listening to country and western music. If anyone saw me, anyone at all, I would be ruined. They would have the following to hold against me: 1. My dad coughs and spits. 2. My dad's van has a "My baby's gonna be a country star" bumper sticker on it. 3. Our van has huge I.M.F.T. stickers on it for my dad's company. The I.M.F.T. stickers on the van are also found on everything at my house. Our lawn mower. Paint cans. Even my brother's skateboard. My dad loves the company he works for, which is Imperial Motor Fitting Technology. My brother tells me, however, that the letters stand for "I aM FaT." Now, wherever I go, the van announces "I am fat." Everything in my house announces it, too. When I got to school, it was just past six-thirty. I looked at the school and I thought, This is it. The first real day of high school. I walked toward the front doors of the school with a Leah Lane song playing in my head. "I believe I'm a star, standing in the light, shining through the night, singing my own song, feeling super strong..." I love singing her songs. They actually bring tears to my eyes. Who hasn't felt like that before, you know? Feeling super strong. She is a genius. I walked in time to the music in my head as I tried to ignore the horrible wrenching in my stomach. My long, perfect hair bounced as I walked. I tried to look serious. I was ready for anything this new school could dish out. I would not be the new kid loser. I would not change who I was to fit in with anybody. I would not care what anyone thought of me. I like myself. I love my hair. I wear dress pants and dressy tops, and shoes with heels that click when I walk. And I wear lots of jewelry. I am Angel Wilson, and I will be famous one day. So back off. I took a deep breath and pushed the heavy front doors open with all my might. They crashed against the wall. I stood in that front hall, ready for all life had to offer me. The halls were totally empty. A lone caretaker quietly mopped the floor. I got to my locker and put my bag inside. I also took off my burgundy pleather coat (plastic leather, very fashionable) and put on more lip gloss. I checked the mirror on the door of my locker. Eyes: good. Blush: good. Hair: great. I took a small bottle of hair spray out of my locker and sprayed like there was no tomorrow. I have several small hair-spray bottles hidden around town. Yesterday, I hid one on a shelf in the library. Just in case. I also put one in the bathroom beside the gym. Gym class is the worst for hair wreckage. One must be prepared. When I turned around, a teacher was standing there. He coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. It was the hair spray, I guess. "Are you Angel Wilson?" asked the man with the hippy shirt and long hair. "Yes, I am. Hi! How are you?" I answered. I can be freakishly chipper. I can't control it. He shook my hand wildly. "I'm Mr. McPherson, the music teacher. Listen, you didn't sign up for choir yesterday. I read your file from your other school. It said you were a singer over there. I heard you were one of Bobby Jimby's singers. Are you coming out?" I was afraid of this. My reputation had preceded me. Bobby Jimby is this guy who sings kids' songs. I used to sing backup on his CDs and go in parades with him. I took singing lessons, and my teacher got me the gig. That's what you call a music job. Only this gig didn't pay. At all. And it wrecked my life. Only goofs sing with Bobby Jimby. Now I have to be careful. If I join the choir at a new school, my life could be ruined. I want to be a diva, totally, but I can't just go around doing stupid gigs that make me look like a goof. I have to wait for a plum gig. I have to build up and get a good outfit. Then I have to record a CD, get discovered, and boom, I'll be famous. I will not deter from the plan. At this school, I will be cool. "Angel? Are you going to join us today? We practice in the mornings before first period. Our choir could use a soprano like you." His eyes were burning a hole in my head. I stared at him, trying to find the words to say no. I guess I could have simply said, "No." But I didn't. I started to weaken. He kept staring at me, smiling. The voice inside my head kept saying, Say no, say no, say no! Unfortunately, I rarely ever listen to myself. "Of course. Thanks for asking. Where is the choir room?" I answered in my chipper voice. That is the other thing about me. I always say yes when people want me to help out or join a club. Even when I don't want to. So I went to choir practice. In no time, people were all over me. "Wow. You are so awesome. You have leather lungs, you can hold a note so long. You are so loud," they said. "Yes, tell us, Angel. How long have you been singing?" Mr. McPherson asked. Everyone stared at me. This made the girl next to me morph into a hideous beast. Her face twisted in pain. Her eyes shot fire. I guess she used to be the best singer in the choir. Now, there was a new soprano in town. "Oh, I've taken lessons since I was in grade four," I said, smiling. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. "I also sang with Bobby Jimby," I added. I went and blurted that out. Some of the kids laughed. Mr. McPherson nodded. "Well, it's nice to have you. We needed some more power in the soprano section. This is great!" The girl beside me had smoke pouring out of her ears. Her head almost popped off her neck. She looked at me and said, "Yeah, nice to have you in the choir." But I knew what that meant. Look out, witch. I'll get you. And your little dog, too. Only I didn't have a dog. Anyway, it was not a good way to start at a new school. But it got much worse. |
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